Fourfront, page 5
Is that true, Joe? They’re going to build a monument to him? Jaysus, that’s a new one. Nothing to stop them of course. And why wouldn’t they? Just across from where he blew up on the edge of the square? The Minister allowing twenty thousand pounds already from some special fund nobody knew nothing about until now? And the church matching them pound for pound? Two church collections and a special big collection at the church gates every Sunday? How’s that for ya? How’s that for ya when you think how short we all are of money. Maybe the Pope himself will come to Ireland again to unveil it? The holy Joes trying to claim him as one of their own now, are they? A martyr to the cause. They’ll make a shrine to him underneath the monument thanks to the Corporation. They’ll canonize him yet, will they? A cardinal or an archbishop on his way from Rome researching the case already. Then we’d have our own saint. We would, Joe, if you like that kind of thing. People being cured . . . Rumours going around that miracles were about to happen, just to be patient . . . any day now. Keeping an eye on people in wheelchairs and other invalids sentenced to death by disease. The clergy claiming that all the bits were holy relics. The nuns would have to stop their perennial prayers and come out of their convents to feed the hungry hordes coming on pilgrimage to the shrine – their backs broken stuffing them with chips and hot dogs. A string of rent-a-loo cabins like a rosary around the square to be kept sanctifyingly white for health reasons. Overflowing despite the charge for their use. Nice fat profits accumulating for the nuns to be spent on the black babies.
What’s that, Joe? You didn’t see the guy who exploded? That’s bloody odd in itself. Everybody else saw him, even people who weren’t there, people who weren’t even in the city that very day. They saw him, I’m telling ya – or at least they said they did. Unless of course they saw him on TV that night, it was on all the news bulletins – and then they thought they were there, that they actually saw him go up in bits – you know the way it is, Joe, memory playing tricks with people, especially nowadays, virtual reality and all that. Too true, Joe, too true. So it goes. There are people and they’d see anything at al. They’re there though. Drug addicts and junkies. People shooting themselves up day and night. They’d easily see someone who exploded even if they were never there themselves. Now you’re talking. Druggies would see anything – Puff the magic dragon living by the sea and floating off somewhere over the rainbow . . . They’d swear black and blue that they did. And they’d be worse fools who swallowed their story. Who’d be first to believe it, Joe . . .
But I’m horrified to think that you of all people didn’t see him . . . a sensible guy like you who sees everything and wouldn’t let the grass grow under his feet. I have to say I thought you saw him, that everyone saw him . . .
Just so. Isn’t that what I say all the time, Joe. Don’t see anything you don’t want to see and is none of your business. Keep your nose clean. It’ll be seen anyway, despite yourself.
But you’d recognize him anyway if you spotted him, wouldn’t you? You mean you’re not sure? What do you mean you’re not fuckin’ sure? I’d be amazed if you didn’t recognize a guy who exploded – much the same as any of us really, except he’s blasted into tiny little bits . . . I find it really strange to think that you didn’t see him Joe . . . really and truly . . . I was sure that every Tom, Dick and Harry in this city saw him. Everyone except myself.
translated by Alan Titley
PÁDRAIC BREATHNACH
Born in Moycullen, Co. Galway, he is now a lecturer in Irish in Mary Immaculate College at the University of Limerick. He is a novelist, essayist and short-story writer. Probably the most prolific short-story writer in Irish, having published over 150 such compositions to date.
Renowned as a stylist, nature lover and for his depiction of youth.
His published works include Bean Aonair (1974), Na Déithe Luachmhara Deiridh (1980), Gróga Cloch (1990), Taomanna (booklet & cassette), Íosla agus Scéalta Eile (1992), The March Hare (1994) and An Pincín agus Scéalta Eile (1996) and As na Cúlacha (1998).
A Bucket of Poteen
Were it not that Uncle Eoin, my father’s brother, had come home and were it not that my family were all away in my Aunt Sorcha’s house, she being ill, it’s certain I wouldn’t be in Danann Mharcais’s house, the distiller, up in the grasslands of Tamhnachaí Arda. Not that night anyway. Or any other night. My family were rarely away.
They were trying to persuade me to go to my aunt’s as well. I was told it was my duty to go there after how kind and generous she had been to us all. But what attraction had my aunt or her house for me, particularly at this time of the year? Now if it were summertime I could go hunting or fishing; I could go filching flowers and saplings for my own garden, but there was nothing doing this time of the year. There wouldn’t even be sweet cake –Aunt Sorcha confined to bed, most likely, and my mother in charge of the meals. I was sure it would be the same awful fare as always: wholemeal bread and country butter. “Roma will be there!” said my mother, hoping that might entice me. Roma! God save us, who would want to play with the likes of her – that foolish, senseless girl! Let Peigí and Treasa play with her, and Andrew as well – but I was grown up! Anyway, I couldn’t stand Roma and all her fancy notions: the hoity-toity voice, always neat as a pin, and her “Ladybird” books.
“Do you know what a stork is?”
She spoke authoritatively, like a schoolmistress, turning her head in a sophisticated manner, like a plover. She looked me straight in the eye and you’d swear that the insults were building up in her. She wouldn’t wait long for an answer. “I know!” she said, proudly. “The stork is a member of the heron family . . .”
What was she on about, the little wretch. So cocksure of herself! I knew more about birds than she’d learn in a lifetime and let her not think differently. I knew more about animals, insects and whatever than she’d ever know. Did she know about the crane-fly? What did she know about the devil’s coach-horse? Did she know anything outside of those “Ladybird” books of hers? Wouldn’t any amadán know that the stork belongs to the heron species. Family! You’d think she was talking about people! The little, washed dung-beetle!
“Storks are never seen in this country. You’d see them on the Continent. In countries such as Denmark and Germany.”
Finally they agreed to leave me at home. I’d be company for my uncle and be able to give him a hand.
Uncle Eoin was our favourite uncle of all. He’d give us sweets or a few coppers. He was a droll type of fellow, more level-headed than my father. My father often complained about him. He’d say he was a ne’erdo-well who was far too fond of the drink.
But my father was a severe man, very set in his ways. A glum sort, you’d rarely get a laugh out of him. He wasn’t one for fun. He refused to take part in any kind of entertainment or let his hair down. Work is all he wanted, work, work and more work. He worked morning and night. On top of that, he was always pressing work on others.
He’d beat us, unlike Uncle Eoin. It seems like he spent most of his life battering one of us, or threatening us fiercely. He could be loutish with the neighbours too, finding faults with a lot of them. Above everything else he couldn’t stand them drinking. He couldn’t even put up with the mention of drink. I found this rather strange as I could remember him taking a drink himself, way back. And he could take a good few. He’d have a drink in the kitchen with the postman around Christmas. He’d down a few with cattle-buyers, duck-buyers and others. I remember the bottles and the empty glasses on the table, my father and his companion in jolly spirits. I used to knock back the dregs after them. But one night there was woeful ructions between my father and my mother. My mother was crying. We started crying too. Maybe that was what put an end to the boozing.
From that day on my father was morose, I thought. He spent his time slaving away, as though instructed by God. He improved his land beyond recognition (fresh green grass where once the heather wafted; rocks blown sky high and the neatest walls erected) so that his plot was the most noteworthy in the district.
I had done my share of labouring on the land and, even though I was only a young lad, I had asked myself over and over again what was it for. Why the endless slaving, why the seriousness of it all? Only rarely were we allowed to play hurling or football with our friends. We weren’t allowed go to the circus or to the cinema. They were only a waste of time and money according to my father, suited only to those who would never make advancement in life. But he had plans for us that would ensure a bright future.
But Uncle Eoin was different, he was nice. He knew how to laugh. It was a wondrous, hearty laugh. Any time he’d be with us, he’d be out at night playing cards or up to some fun, instead of being chained to some chore at home. I’d see him taking the road to the village, a cap on his head, wearing a heavy brown coat, happy and content in himself, myself and my father in a state of half-collapse, feeding the calves and the cattle, up to the oxters in mud.
My uncle wasn’t too particular what he wore. My father, though, wore a top hat for years, suits of the best tweed, and solid, leather shoes. For one reason or another my father was more respected than my uncle. People were a bit in awe of him – a straight, tough man – but somehow they respected him. They always spoke highly of him. My uncle was “a nice old sort” but my father was “a great man”. How come? Why was that, I wonder? Because my father was married, with offspring to care for? My uncle hadn’t chick or child or anything else. Was there more to it than that?
It was quite dark by the time Uncle Eoin and myself set out on the road. Not that it was all that late but it was that time of the year when night is in a hurry to fall.
During the evening, stars were beginning to bead the heavens and by now they were much clearer. Though a number of clouds sulked on high and the moon was covered, there were plenty enough omens to suggest a cold bright night ahead.
We were well wrapped: heavy coats and sturdy shoes. Uncle Eoin had his usual brown coat and his old cap. My head was bare. I didn’t mind a bit though the cold wind was biting into my ears. I was so keen for this adventure that I’d walk to the North Pole in the nude. I ambled along, my hands in my pockets, and my heart was with me.
We took the main road. We could have shortened our journey through the mountain paths but they were not to be trusted with their bog-holes, their quaking sods and marshland along the way. It was a route I had no knowledge of, except to view from Crew Hill, and it was a long time since Uncle Eoin himself tried it. The road was easier, if a little longer, and my uncle enjoyed walking at night.
And so we had to pass through the village. It wasn’t the barracks that Uncle Eoin was worried about but fear of being recognized, of being drawn into conversation and forced to go for a drink.
He turned up the collar of his coat and we went dourly on without saying a word, but my heart was pounding with the spirit of adventure.
Ignoring the cold, the odd person stood outside the pubs. Not standing really: slouching against the wall or a lamp-post. In one pub a man was singing his lungs out, his voice rising with emotion.
By a dark gable a man was urinating.
At the other end of the village where the lights no longer reached us, my uncle gave me a shilling and I ran back to buy some sweets. He crouched behind a wall and you wouldn’t see a speck of him.
I recognized the man who was pissing – it was Maidhc Learaí from Leegaun. Anotorious drunk who spent his life with his lips to the glass, his house and land gone the way his piss was going now. And when I came out it was still streaming from him. It sounded so much like a cascade I wondered had he turned on a tap or something but as the thin, foam-topped channel appeared on the road, I knew it was pure piss. Like what might come out of a cow, except thinner.
As I went by, the pub door opened and I stole a quick glance inside where a fair few people were drinking. In front of them, on the counter, paraded pint-glasses with their fill of stout, some not so full. Big, tough, bare-chested men with caps, half-veiled by pipe and cigarette smoke. It was all so leisurely and so manly.
I was struck by a desire. To be in there among the men. I wanted to be grown-up and accepted in their company; to drink as good as the best of them. But my father! God save us! Quite mad he was. If he knew my mind he’d be horrified. He’d have a fit even if he saw me peering through the pub door – the door to the devil’s kingdom! What sort was he at all that he had to be different from all living men?
Strange, but the police barracks is way back the other end, cut off from the town. As we passed it by, how proud I was of my uncle: off in search of illicit spirits and strolling innocently past the barracks. It was an expedition – a great adventure. We were play-acting – it was a show. My uncle was a fearless leader, as bold and as mischievous as the poteen-maker himself, Danann Mharcais, up to his alchemy as always in the wild hills beyond.
If the guards saw us they might get suspicious, I thought. We might be flung into prison. In my own mind I saw the “black hole” of the barracks, the firm, iron bolts on the closed door, rats whining in corners. We took a left turn: a sandy, narrow, crooked boreen winding its way through hedges and stones and out into the great open moorland. We passed the occasional house, an eerie pale-yellow light in some of the windows.
Soon we had reached a good height and the view to go with it. There were little torch-like lights to be seen a-plenty. The moon came out from a cloud and bathed the countryside in golden peace. In spite of the chill, and you’d notice the wind this high up, my heart was pumping with joy. I said to myself that the place was fierce lonesome and isolated and it pleased me to say it. Since an early age, the mountain and moor had a great attraction for me. I liked the bog-cotton and loved the heather. No bird was more delightful to me that the grouse.
My uncle took a leak and I commenced to do the same. It was a manly thing, I thought, to urinate with an adult. But I had soon finished and my Uncle Eoin’s fine steady stream made me envious. His stream traced a circle around a patch of ice.
“That’s your bog over there where the light is shining,” said he, closing the buttons of his trousers and hoisting them up to his waist.
What he said interested me greatly. I looked eastwards towards the light and for a fraction of a second imagined myself there in the bog, spreading turf. My brother Cairbre beside me, my father below in the bog, cutting the turf and throwing up the sods. There were many places to be seen from that bog: hills that we could name, houses whose inhabitants were familiar to us, but it was towards Tamhnachaí Arda that my heart was ever drawn. There were stretches of land up there that I had never laid eyes on, like many another. And somewhere there . . . lived Danann Mharcais – the most renowned moonshiner in the parish. Young and all as I was, I’d heard about this man and I always imagined his children as moorchicks picking their way to school, church or shops, through the heath.
Tamhnachaí Arda was a “land of youth” for me: it was there – somewhere – and had always been there, old as time itself. The russet hills all round, decayed mountain grass, Danann Mharcais ensconced in his trench, concocting his potions. His father before him in the same spot, or some other, and his father before him again, dedicated to the same art. Watched by foxes unbeknownst. Wild birds scattering . . .
When we worked on the bog I’d ask my father about Danann. I’d ask him all about Tamhnachaí Arda; and about poteen. But my father didn’t welcome such enquiries. “It’s not poteen he makes but poison,” he said one day, visibly angry, and told me to busy myself with the turf and refrain from foolish chit-chat.
My father thought I was taking too much of an interest in Danann Mharcais – the old man of the mountain, in his eyes, who never did anything for himself or his family, only always causing trouble and bother.
“He makes his devilish potion in a pig-trough, pisses and spits into it, and then washes his feet in it.”
He paused. He was upset. It wasn’t right for me to be curious about Danann. Not a healthy interest for a young boy at all at all!
“Danann and his kin are nothing but beggars, and self-respecting people should give them a wide berth. They never had anything, famous only for litigations and debts.”
